Make your signs beautiful, for God to see.
They are prayers, not to be wasted
on that gang of lying brats who swindle us of power;
they're for that starved angel they keep
chained in the national basement.
Make your signs bright, for the blind to read
and don't expect victory, just miracles.
Don't demand peace or call loudly for justice.
Beg mercy. Our nation's trial
is now in the sentencing phase.
Witness. We live here
and we don't need
vacant assets; we need neighbors.
Not insurance plans, just doctors;
nor more school buildings, only people
teaching with love and understanding.
We don't need masters, just the right
to do what's needed and to not
be made to fear.
I first saw you in the 60's;
now we're back again five decades later
and the lies we face haven't changed
enough to matter.
Victory
is never ours, but miracles
keep rising up from our ashes.
It's been a long death, but we're still here.
Forrest Curo
Oct 2, 2011
[revised from a version
of pre-war 2003]
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1 comment:
Awesome. Powerful.
Make your signs bright, for the blind to read
and don't expect victory, just miracles.
This was a slap. I needed. A jolt. It’s not about winning. It’s about Something far beyond me. Out of my Power. Alone. Perhaps I need to expect the miracle of repenting of my combative seeking of victories. Oh, God. Help.
Our nation's trial
is now in the sentencing phase.
I’m having tender feelings toward Lincoln’s Second Inaugural. The ‘signs bright’ of the sunlight rumored to have shone through the clouds on that day. A miracle of mercy. For our many clouds of war. And yet, our wars are many. On and on.
Witness. What a definition. Or feeling. A command. And description.
I first saw you in the 60's;
now we're back again five decades later
and the lies we face haven't changed
enough to matter.
Buffalo Springfield - “there’s somethin’ happenin’ here....” For What It’s Worth.
Perhaps the poem is one way to stay sane. Speaking in the midst of it. A sign. Bright!
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